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A Brief Note From 1911 About An Optimist

May 30, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the January 29, 1911 New York Times:

McKeesport, Penn.–So great was the crowd wanting to see Margaret Shipley, the blind girl in a trance, that the street railway company put on two extra cars running to her home. About 100 persons remained about the house all night.

The blind girl, who has promised that on Monday night she will gain her sight, through her fasting and faith, partially came out of her trance toward the morning, and for a few moments exhorted in an unknown tongue. One word was recognized by those who heard her. It was ‘Tibet.’ On being questioned as to the significance of this word, Mrs. Charles F. Halderman, in whose house the girl lies, said that before passing into her trance the girl said she had been instructed that on receiving her sight she would go to Tibet as a missionary.

She told Mrs. Halderman that she wanted twelve persons, whom she named, to be present to witness her recovery on Monday night.”

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A Brief Note From 1899 About A Subtle Poison

May 28, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From October 17, 1899 New York Times:

“Cincinnati–To-morrow morning there will be buried from St. Xavier’s Church, at solemn requiem high mass, the remains of Miss Mary Laughlin, aged eighteen, of 519 Torrence Road. Miss Laughlin died from blood poisoning and with terrible agony.

She was poisoned by the blue ink that is used on typewriter ribbons. A small, insignificant, and, almost imperceptible fever blister on her lip was the means by which the death-dealing substance was conveyed into her blood. The young lady, who was employed by the Amberg & Brill Ty Company, a little over a week ago noticed that a small fever blister had appeared on her lower lip.

She had been at work at her typewriter and her fingers were stained with the blue ink used on the ribbon. She had also been using a blue indelible pencil, and the stain from this was also on her fingers. In trying to break the blister Miss Laughlin placed the stained finger on it and in a short time she felt a sharp pain in her face. This was followed by a slight swelling.

Finally the pain became almost unbearable and her lip began to swell badly and turned black. Miss Laughlin sought medical aid, and everything that medical skill could do was done, but the poison permeated her system and her life was sapped away by the deadly stuff, her death seeming a merciful relief from the torture of the subtle poison. Her face was distorted and her skin almost as black as coal. The poisoned lip had swollen to gigantic proportions, and nothing could reduce it.”

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Old Print Article: “Obituary–Hans Christian Andersen,” New York Times (1875)

May 27, 2013 in Books, Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

I recently re-read the simple yet deeply moving Hans Christian Andersen allegory, “The Fir Tree” when I picked up a copy of Randall Jarrell’s Book of Stories. Here’s the opening of Danish writer’s August 5, 1975 New York Times obituary, which covers his early life up until his first fame:

“The death of Hans Christian Andersen, the Danish poet and novelist, at Copenhagen, yesterday, is announced by a cable dispatch.

Hans Christian Andersen was born at Odense, in the Island of Fünen (part of the Kingdom of Denmark) on the 2d of April, 1805. Born in a land peculiarly rich in old song, mythology, and folk lore, and the only child of a man who, though only a poor shoemaker, was a man of literary taste and ability and of a highly poetic temperament–a temperament which his child inherited to the full–Andersen was a striking example of Cervantes’ maxim, that ‘Every one is the son of his own works.’ Finding in his child a spirit akin to his own, the elder Andersen fostered and encouraged the fanciful, and poetical elements of his nature at every opportunity. Andersen often spoke of his father’s eloquence ‘in telling me fairy tales.’ Again he said, ‘on Sundays he made me panoramas, theatres, and transformation pictures, and he would read me pieces out of Holberg’s plays and stories from the Thousand and One Nights.’ And Andersen discloses his father to us in the following comment on those Sunday readings: ‘And those were the only moments in which I remember him as looking really cheerful, for in his position as an artisan he did not feel happy.’ While still a very young child Andersen was taken by his father to the theatre, and in his connection he shows the truth of Milton’s lines in Paradise Regained:

‘The childhood shows the man
As morning shows the day.’

Unable, of course, to go often to the theatre, the youngster made friends with the play-bill distributors, who gave him a programme every day. He would retire into some corner with his treasure and imagine the whole play according to its play, and the names and characters in it. Then he collected all his dolls, and, with some pieces of calico for curtain and wings, he would make them enact the pieces in puppet fashion, he repeating what he could remember of his father’s reading. He had, too, a remarkably sweet and clear voice, and would introduce songs into his mimic performances. In this way he whiled away the long hours of his mother’s absence from home; for after his father’s death, which occurred when the boy was only nine years old, she used to go out washing for other people. The death of his father changed the current of his dramatic tendencies, and Hamlet’s Ghost and Lear found their way on to his miniature stage. In these days he wrote his first piece–a tragedy, which he called ‘Abor and Elvira.’ It was founded on an old song of Pyramus and Thisbe, and all the characters in it either died, committed suicide, or were killed. At fourteen years of age Andersen persuaded his mother, who had married again, to let him leave home, and he started for Copenhagen, with a small bundle of clothes, thirteen bank dollars, and a letter of introduction to Mme. Schall, a dancer at the theatre, prepared to begin the battle of life. Andersen arrived in Copenhagen on the 5th of September, 1819. His first visit was to the theatre, round which he walked several times, and which, before he left it, he felt that he looked upon as a home. Ten years later, in that very theatre, he witnessed the production of his first dramatic effort, entitled ‘The Courtship of St. Nicholas’ Steeple; or, What Does the Pit Say?’ The letter of introduction to Mme. Schall proved of no avail. She thought the boy crazy, and got him out of her house as quickly as possible. Remembering that he had read in a newspaper at Odense that an Italian named Siboui was Director of the Musical Conservatory of Copenhagen, he inquired the way and betook himself to Siboui’s house, whom he told his story. It happened that Weyse, the celebrated composer, and Baggesen, the poet, and a large company were dining with Siboui. The lad recited some scenes from Holberg, and some poems, and ended by bursting into tears. Weyse was deeply moved, and immediately raised a subscription for the friendless lad among those present. The collection amounted to $70. In time Andersen became a member of the ballet and chorus at the theatre, and spent his leisure hours in a sort of desultory study under the auspices of Weyse, Baggesen, the poet Guldberg, Oersted, the philosopher, and others who were interested in him; but so far he had talent without education. At the end of the theatrical season of 1823 he received his dismissal from the theatre, and for some months he experienced real want, but suffered in silence. Oersted, however, interested Collin, the Director of the Theatre Royal, in his favor. Collin was struck with the merits as well as the fruits of a historical tragedy called ‘Alfsol,’ which Andersen gave him to read, and, using his influence with King Frederick VI, and the Directors of the public schools, he procured a pension for him for a few years and free instruction in the Latin school at Slagelse, telling him that in time he would be able to produce works worthy to be acted on the Danish stage. He studied at Slagelse, and afterward in the Latin school at Helsingür, and then returned to Copenhagen, where he was welcomed by the family of Admiral Wulff in the Amalienborg Palace.

During these days he wrote but little poetry, the principal pieces being ‘The Soul,’ ‘To My Mother,’ and ‘The Dying Child,’ the last of which was among the most widely circulated of all his attempts in verse. At the time it was written it was printed with an apology for having been the composition of one still at school. From grave to gay, Andersen wrote several humorous pieces, which Heiberg readily printed in the Flying Post. In September, 1828, he became a student in the Royal College at Copenhagen, entering upon his studies with the greatest enthusiasm. The following year was the turning point of his life. He varied his studies by writing a humorous book, his first work, entitled ‘A Foot Journey to Amak.’ No one would publish the book, so he took the risk  upon himself. To his great joy and astonishment it was out of print a few days after its appearance. Reitzel, the book-seller, purchased the second edition, and afterward published a third. The book was also reprinted in Sweden. Everybody in Copenhagen read it, and Andersen was famous.”

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A Brief Note From 1890 About Heavy Sleepers

May 26, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the January 23, 1890 New York Times:

“Des Moines, Iowa–Judge Hoyt of the Clayton District Court has passed sentence upon probably the youngest life convict in this country. His name is John Wesley Elkins and the offense charged was that of murder of his father. He also murdered his mother at the same time. He was indicted for both offenses, but as he pleaded guilty to the first the other was not tried. The boy is only twelve years old.

On the night of July 17 he shot his father with a rifle while he was asleep, and seized a club and beat his mother’s head to jelly.

He confessed the crime, and gave as his motive that he had desired to leave home and shift for himself, but his parents had objected. He was given the full limit of the law.”

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A Brief Note From 1898 About A Lucky Man

May 23, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the June 3, 1898 New York Times:

“Sioux City, Iowa–Loaded with wealth, but deserted and starving, John Rochel, once a well-known manufacturer in Sioux City, perished last April on the trail between Dawson City and Alaskan points. The news of his death reached here in a letter to his widow, written by Richard Hendrickson, from Seattle, under date of March 24.

The details of Rochel’s death are meagre, but from what can be gleaned it appears that he was returning from the mines, after disposing of a valuable claim. His party was short of provisions, and as Rochel, who was quite an old man, delayed the march, it was decided to abandon him. Rochel had been engaged here in the manufacture of brick, but was tempted from home by the stories of immense wealth in Alaska. From all accounts he was among the luckiest of the miners at Dawson City, but was unable to bring his winnings back to civilization. His body will be brought here for burial.”

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Old Print Article: “Man-Driven Plane Flies In Paris Test,” New York Times (1921)

May 23, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Sports, Urban Studies | Permalink

A small plane powered for a matter of feet by a person on a bicycle is utterly useless in a practical sense, yet achingly beautiful to admire, perhaps because of the near-futility of the effort. From a July 10, 1921 New York Times article about French wheelman Gabriel Poulain, who was a pioneer in this odd endeavor:

“Paris–Gabriel Poulain, the French champion cyclist, succeeded this morning in the Bois de Boulogne in winning the Peugot prize of 10,000 francs for the flight of more than ten meters distance and one meter high in a man-driven airplane. In an ‘aviette,’ which is a bicycle with two wing planes, he four times flew the prescribed distance, his longest flight being more than twelve meters, or about the same number of yards.

Poulain for several years has been devoting himself to the solution of the problem of flight by the power of his own muscles and several times has come near winning a prize. This morning’s exhibition, however, was by far the most successful, a cyclist never before having been able to rise from the ground a sufficient height to enable him to cover more than six or seven meters.

For today’s attempt Poulain altered the angle of the small rear plane of his machine and it was this alteration, it seems, that solved the problem. 

Poulain made his attempt just after dawn on the smooth road at the entrance to the Longchamps race course. Several members of the Aero Club, donors of the prize and a large company of journalists and photographers were present. A square twenty meters each away was carefully measured off and chalked so as to mark the points at which the ‘aviette’ must rise one meter from the ground and that two flights must be made in opposite directions.

Rides Smoothly in Air

Poulain, who was confident that this time he was going to succeed, rode his machine at top speed toward the chalked square. As he entered it he released the clutch which throws the wing into proper position and at once the miniature biplane rose from the ground gracefully and steadily to a height of more than a meter. 

The flight was as steady as that of a motor-driven airplane and Poulain declared afterward that the motion was smoother than when traveling along the ground. When the judges measured the distance between the wheel marks on the chalk they found it lacked only two centimeters of being twelve meters.

Poulain’s flight in the opposite direction was not quite so successful, though he succeeded in covering eleven and a half meters. In landing he broke two spokes of the rear wheel.

M. Robert Peugeot declared the prize won, but Poulain wished to make further proof of the powers of his machine. After changing the wheel he started from positions chosen by the judges, and in each case he succeeded in covering the prize-winning distance. His longest flight was the last, of twelve meters thirty-two centimeters.

In order to cover so great a distance Poulain worked up to a speed of forty-five kilometers an hour on the ground. According to his own estimate, the muscular force required for flight is equal to three horse power. The total weight of the machine, with the wings, is seventeen kilogrammes, or about thirty-seven pounds, and the cyclist himself weighs seventy-four kilograms, or about 165  pounds.

After the flight Poulain declared that he intended to set at work at once on another plane, which, he believes, will enable him to fly 200 to 300 meters. On this machine he will make use of a propeller instead of depending, as he did today, simply on impetus.

Once in the air, Poulain says that not so much power is needed as for the take-off. He says the pedal-worked propeller will be strong enough to continue flight for a considerable distance without fatigue.”

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Edward Payson Weston, Ready For A Stroll (1909)

May 21, 2013 in Excerpts, Old Print Articles, Photography, Sports, Urban Studies | Permalink

Though his child has long vanished from the sporting scene, Edward Payson Weston was known during his lifetime as the “Father of Modern Pedestrianism,” a pastime that rewarded those who could hoof great distances with surprising speed. I’ve blogged about the world-class walker before, when Brian Phillips of Grantland wrote a sparkling piece about the recent Weston biography, A Man in a Hurry. In this classic photograph, the legendary athlete, profiled at 70 years old, was far removed from his glory days of the 1860s-70s, but perhaps because of good health brought about from his peripatetic exploits, he was still twenty years from his death. Of course, it must be noted that his demise may have been hastened by an accident in 1927 in which he was struck by a NYC taxi, as the roads, which had become the domain of cars, had little room for a remnant of the 1800s who was so accursed by their encroachment. Weston could see the future and didn’t like it, though he was helpless, as we all are, to stop it.

In the same year that this image was taken, the native Rhode Islander wrote an article about one of his cross-country walks, a planned 100-day excursion from New York to San Francisco, for the July 16, 1909 New York Times. The article:

“San Francisco, Cal.–Having completed my walk from New York City to San Francisco last night, and enjoyed a restful sleep. I walked to the Post Office Building here this morning and delivered to Postmaster Fiske of San Francisco a letter which I carried in my walk from Postmaster Morgan of New York City. I received a cordial greeting from Postmaster Fisk and his subordinates. 

A pleasant incident of my arrival at Oakland last night was the hearty welcome and congratulations extended to me by officials and employees of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company. This company did so much for me that I fail to find words to express my appreciation. 

Regarding my feelings and condition, I would say that I feel like uttering bitter words, but do not feel inclined to make excuses.

I have received hundreds of letters and telegrams congratulating me on my wonderful achievement, and each one makes me wish I deserved it. Full of vigor and strength, I am disappointed that the elements were against me, and I frankly acknowledge that had it not been for the unbounded kindness of the officers and employees of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company, I should not have dared to come further than Ogden, Utah. I practically had the right of way on the railroad, and every engineer tooted the whistle on his engine as it passed me.

I contend I walked a distance of upward of 4,000 miles in 104 days and 5 hours, and while it exceeds the distance between New York and San Francisco nearly 700 miles, and far excels any previous record, yet technically it is a failure, and I do not feel inclined to close my public career with a failure.

The expenses of this walk were upwards of $2,500. Some dozen prominent cities in the East have made offers to arrange for testimonial lectures on my return, not only to help liquidate my financial loss, but to show that my object lesson in the journey, in striving to elevate in popular esteem the exercise of walking, is appreciated. 

If in the next two weeks I shall receive assurances from a sufficient number of cities and towns between Omaha and New York that they will arrange for lectures and send such word to me in care of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company, San Francisco, then I will try to prove myself worthy of their confidence and esteem by showing how easy it is for any one to walk from San Francisco to New York by direct route within 100 secular days.

There are three very dear friends who oppose this extra walk, but when I convince them that it is my only salvation, and that it would still keep me young and healthy, I know they will fall in with my plans.

Meanwhile the only trouble I have is an awful appetite.”

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A Brief Note From 1907 About A Hangman

May 19, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the October 7, 1907 New York Times:

“Trenton–With the completion of the death house at the State prison here, and the going effect of the State law abolishing hanging and substituting electrocution, will pass the Jersey hangman, who is James Van Hise of Newark. Van Hise, as State hangman, always offers his services whenever a man is to be hanged, and does his work in a matter-of-fact way.

There are only two men in Jersey to be hanged, if they do not succeed in getting pardons. John B. Schuyler, convicted of killing Manning Reilly at Califon, Hunterdon County, and Fredrick Lang, who killed his niece. Lang lives in Middlesex County, and that county will be the last to employ Van Hise, the aged hangman.

When the bill changing the method of execution to that by electricity was passing, Van Hise appeared in the State House and lobbied hard against the bill, urging that death by the rope, and the way he put the noose about the victim’s neck so that it would surely break the neck, was the most humane method of execution.

Van Hise is 71 years old, and his trade almost all his life has been that of a hangman. The State allows a Sheriff $500 for performing an execution. Few Sheriffs have done the work themselves, but have hired Van Hise, giving him the whole $500 or half of it. When there were two or three men on hand to be executed at the same time, Van Hise gave bargain rates.”

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A Brief Note From 1893 About A Drunk Baby

May 16, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the January 21, 1893 New York Times:

“Newark–Some shocking testimony was given here in the habeas corpus proceedings instituted by Mrs. Le Comte to recover possession of her child from her husband.

Mr. Le Comte said that the mother, while the child was teething, gave it a heavy dose of laudanum, and that once he found the child in a stupor at the table when he returned home for the evening, and learned from the servants that the little one had become intoxicated with beer. When he charged his wife with having administered it, she denied it, and a quarrel and a separation followed.

Alice Fisher, who had been a child’s nurse in the family, testified that she had seen Mrs. Le Comte give the child beer–a small glassful–and that when Mrs. Reeves, Mrs. Le Comte’s boon companion, asked Mrs. Le Comte to give the little one more beer to see how drunk she could make it, the request was complied with. The girl said that the child became intoxicated and trembled on the floor and rolled around in silly humor.

Mrs. Celia Smith testified that Mrs. Le Comte had once said to her that she was tempted to give the child enough drugs to stint the growth and make a museum freak of it.

After this testimony had been taken Mr. Le Comte consented to allow his wife to tale the child, in the hope of reconciling her.”

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Old Print Article: “Girl Buried Alive,” New York Times (1897)

May 15, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

“In a few seconds the subject was in a deep hypnotic sleep.”

A macabre and unpopular experiment in Upstate New York was the subject of an article in the May 24, 1897 New York Times. The story:

“Binghamton, N.Y.–A young girl, Annabelle Moray, was hypnotized last evening, placed in a coffin, and buried five feet under ground, to remain for forty-eight hours without food or drink. This is the first test of the kind ever attempted with a woman, and exhibition attracted a great crowd to Lestershire, a nearby suburb, where the burial took place. The village authorities threatened the hypnotist, Prof. Ceborne, with arrest, but allowed him to carry out the programme after he explained that no possible harm could result to the woman.

Late in the afternoon a dray with a broadcloth-covered coffin paraded through the principal streets of this city, bearing banners advertising the intended burial. The dray was closely followed by an open carriage containing Prof. Ceborne and his subject. Arriving at Lestershire, the procession was met by a large crowd of villagers, who loudly threatened the hypnotist, calling him a coward and a fakir. Trouble seemed imminent, and Miss Moray was hurried to her rudely improvised dressing room in a neighboring barn, to prepare for the burial.

Again the professor made a speech assuring those present that the subject was perfectly willing to be buried, and that no possible physical harm could come to her. When all was ready the professor asked for silence and said he would place the subject in a hypnotic state by a novel method. Retreating about twenty feet, the professor, first looking at the subject, whistled a weird Hindu chant, and in a few seconds the subject was in a deep hypnotic sleep.  Upon examination by Dr. C.P. Roberts it was found that the girl’s muscles were seemingly paralyzed. The pulse, respiration,  and temperature were normal. She did not respond to a touch or to any of the various tests made.

She was placed in the coffin and lowered into the grave. The ventilating shafts were carefully adjusted, and the Professor, with a parting word or warning that she must sleep without food or drink for for forty-eight hours, left her to her fate.”

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A Brief Note From 1906 About A Jealous Janitor

May 12, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the November 22, 1906 New York Times:

“‘Writing love letters to his teacher in Public School N. 70, at 207 East Seventy-fifth Street,’ was the charge made against thirteen-year-old John Smith of 315 Easy Seventy-fifth Street in the Childrens’ Court yesterday by Patrolman Alexander Frazier. John went free because the teacher failed to appear against him. 

William Adams, janitor of the school, approached Patrolman Frazier dragging Johnny Smith by the arm, and asked him to arrest the boy. When the officer first asked what the boy had done, the janitor declared that he was guilty of disorderly conduct.

‘He’s been writing love letters to his teacher and won’t stop, though he has been warned enough,’ explained the janitor. The name of the teacher who had won Johnny’s heart did not appear in the policeman’s complaint, but the janitor promised that she would be in court yesterday. Johnny is large for his age and matter of fact in appearance. It was said that he had not only written love letters to the teacher, but had made the unpardonable mistake of reading them to others before sending them.

‘Gee! That was a narrow escape,’ said Johnny when he went free.”

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A Brief Note From 1904 About An Animal Trainer

May 9, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the March 17, 1904 New York Times:

“While in a cage with three lions this afternoon, Alfred J.F. Perrins, the animal trainer, suddenly became insane. Soon after he entered the cage Perrins struck one of the lions a vicious blow and cried, ‘Why don’t you bow to me, I am God’s agent.’

Perrins then left the cage, leaving the door open and saying, ‘They will come out, as God is looking after them.’ He then stood on a box and called on the spectators to come and be healed, saying he could restore sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf, and heal any disease by a gift just received from God.

The lions started to leave the cage and the spectators fled. The cage door was slammed by a policeman, who arrested Perrins. Physicians announced Perrins hopelessly crazed on religion. He has been in show business thirty years , having been with Robinson, Barnum, and Sells.”

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A Brief Note From 1888 About A Majestic Bird

May 8, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the September 25, 1888 New York Times:

“Chicago–A dispatch from Wichita, Kan., says: The baby of a farmer, William Beattie, who lives on the Cimarron River, north of the Territory line, was carried off by an eagle Saturday. Beattie went to work in the morning, leaving in his dug-out his two children, one 5 years old and a baby aged 2 months. About noon Beattie returned home and found his girl in tears. She said she had taken the baby into the yard and left it while she went into the house. In a few minutes she heard a cry, and in looking out saw the baby ‘flying away,’ as she expressed it. The father knew at once that an eagle has visited his home and summoned his neighbors to the wooded banks of the river, for which the eagle had made. In about an hour the sound of a shot summoned the searchers together. One of the men had found the eagle and was engaged in a conflict with it. He had emptied his gone at the big bird and was using his gun as a club when reinforcements arrives. The eagle fluttered into the bush and then the father saw his infant dead, the body badly lacerated.”

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Old Print Article: “New Messiah Rising, Theosophists Say,” New York Times (1913)

May 7, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

The high-water mark of New York Times journalism was not this article in the September 5, 1913 edition of the paper which reported, unquestioningly, on the creepy search for a new Messiah, which was heavily informed by eugenics. An excerpt:

“Chicago–New Aryan stock that is destined to produce a new Messiah and rule the world is developing on the Pacific Coast, according to prominent Theosophists gathered here to-day to attend the opening session of the twenty-seventh annual meeting of the American Section of the Theosophical Society.

One of the chief affairs scheduled for discussion is the development of the society’s fifteen-acre tract at Kaltona, Cal., now used as the headquarters for the organization and established two years ago at a cost of $100,000. A school has been opened there for the teaching of the cult by sixty volunteer workers. The ultimate plan is to use Kaltona, which is within the municipal boundaries of Los Angeles, for the organization of a colony which is to be the nucleus of a new race or physical type in America.

‘This root race is the sixth sub-race of Aryan stock, and there are unmistakable signs that it has appeared on the Pacific Coast,’ said Max Wardall of Seattle. ‘It is a new physical type and is the result of the gradual process of reincarnation, in our opinion. We believe this race is destined to rule the earth. Eugenics has played an important part in the development of the new type, which is taller, more athletic, and somewhat darker than the prevailing type. Its members have a finer nervous organization and a higher spiritual perception.

‘At the proper time we expect a Messiah to appear and direct the destinies of the new race, the same as Christ did centuries ago.’

C.F. Holland of Los Angeles said that three young men were preparing themselves to be human representatives of the new Messiah and that the question of which might be chosen was causing considerable discussion among Theosophists through the world.

Members of the Society of the Eastern Star believe the honor will fall to Krishnamurita Alcyona of India, 18 years old, who three years ago wrote what has been described as a profound book and which attracted the attention of thinkers on reincarnation. Another candidate is an Englishman whose identity is not revealed, and the third is said to be a resident of Chicago. All three candidates, according to Theosophists are undergoing a system of training for the purification of their physical, emotional and mental beings.”

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A Brief Note From 1909 About A Wealthy Feline

May 5, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the September 3, 1903 New York Times:

“London–A little pink Persian kitten sat for its photograph to-day in the studio of a well-known animal photographer wearing a gold crown on its head and a gold order around its neck. The pink Persian came from the Windsor Castle and now belongs to Mrs. Anita Comfort Brooks, President of the Gotham Club of New York, who is on a visit to London. This crowned kitten enjoys a perfumed bath every morning and one of its favorite pastimes is to paw the keys of a grand piano.

‘I was the first cat lover to think of giving a cat diamond earrings,’ said Mrs. Brooks to-day. ‘Bangles and necklaces had become so very hackneyed, and I wanted my cat to be unlike any one else’s, so I had the ears pierced and bought my cat a pair of fine diamond earrings.’

Mrs. Brooks always names her cat’s after celebrities. President Roosevelt was the one who rejoiced in jeweled ears. Governor Hughes, another pet, wears pink corsets, pink shoes, and pink stockings, and Admiral was a fine figure in a navy blue coat, striped trousers, and an Admiral’s hat.”

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A Brief Note From 1890 About Lactose Intolerance

May 2, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the August 1, 1890 New York Times:

“Plainfield, N.J.–Mary Goldsmith, who died near Plainfield a day or two ago in consequence, it is supposed, of a too free drinking of milk, was a cook employed on Gen, Schwenck’s large dairy farm, Holly Grove, on the Park Avenue Road. She was a middle-aged woman and had been in Gen. Schwenck’s service for some time.

She became very fond of the fresh milk, and drank it warm as it came from the cows morning and evening. The family cannot say how much she drank a day, but they think she must have consumed three or four gallons. She grew stout, but seemed to be in perfect health till within a day or two of her death. Then she complained of pains around her heart. She finally suffered so much that she was forced to her bed, and died a few hours later.”

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Old Print Article: “A Woman Returns To Life While On A Dissecting Table,” New York Times (1884)

May 1, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

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“While on the table the body showed signs of life.”

No one in a Massachusetts insane asylum was going to believe the story of Estelle Newman. They would just assume she was crazy. An article about her predicament from the December 11, 1884 New York Times:

“Springfield, Mass.–A strange story has come from Egremont, among the Berkshire hills, near the New-York line. The town and the surrounding villages are in great excitement. The story runs that Estelle Newman, about 30 years old, died in Egremont in 1878, and, after the funeral services in the little Methodist church was buried in the town cemetery and forgotten. The sensation comes from the dying testimony of H. Worth Wright, in Connecticut, who is said to have confessed to his brother that he, being a student in the Albany Medical College, was present at the funeral with other students, lay in wait near the cemetery till the burial was over and graveyard was deserted, and then helped disinter the body and carry it in a sack to the medical college. They at once went to work on it in a dissecting room. While on the table the body showed signs of life, and was resuscitated by the students. Finding the woman alive on their hands the authorities of the college had her taken to an insane asylum in Schoharie County, N.Y. This is the last that Wright is said to have known of her whereabouts. The Newman woman’s grave will probably be opened to see what the story amounts to.”

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A Note From 1912 About A Successful Plumber

April 30, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the April 4, 1912 New York Times:

“London–The story of how Adelaide Dallamore, a girl of 23 years, dressed as a man and living with another girl as her husband, while earning a living for both as a plumber, was related to-day in an action in the Police Court.

Miss Dallamore as arrested on a charge of disorderly conduct as a man, and the arrest led to the amazing discovery.

Miss Dallamore for some time has earned a good living working at plumbing. On promising to dress in woman’s clothes in the future the court bound the girl over.”

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Old Print Article: “One Of A Strange Family,” New York Times (1880)

April 29, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

“She was a withered old hag of singular presence, being nearly 6 feet 9 inches in height and exceedingly slim.”

This deeply insulting and jaw-dropping article about the disappearance and death of the matriarch of family named De Groat, which appeared in the November 29, 1880 edition of the New York Times, may be the single craziest thing to ever appear in the paper. The opening:

“Mongaup Valley; Sullivan County, N.Y.–Three hunters from the western part of Sullivan County were in town to-day, and reported the finding of the body of an old woman who had been missing from the neighborhood of Mongaup Valley since the first week in November. Her death was a tragic one, and was a fitting end to a strange life. Her name was Margaret Conkling, and she was known throughout the county as ‘Old Mag.’ She belonged to a large family of half-savage people known as the ‘De Groats,” the ‘Hinkses,’ the ‘Henions,’ and the ‘Conklings.’ This family numbers about 375 men, women, and children, and a more degraded set of persons it would be difficult to find in the United States. They dwell in small cabins and caves in the wooded hills of Orange and Sullivan Counties, and their living is made principally by stealing, hunting, and fishing. Some of them are expert basket-makers, and, with huge backloads of baskets, they often descend from the mountains to the villages of Sparrowbush, Port Jervis, Monticello, Huguenot, and Cudderbackville, where they dispose of their wares and invest the proceeds in whisky and tobacco. On these trips they plan robberies, and every basket-selling tour is sure to be followed by a raid. They can easily hide themselves in the mountains, and always manage to escape detection. They are of Indian descent, and bear all the facial marks of their ancestors, while their habits are even less decent than those of their savage progenitors. They intermarry exclusively, and no divorce is needed to separate man and wife when they wish to be separated. The result of this is evident in the faces and persons of their children. Many of them are idiotic, some of them are born without ears, some without hands, and there is one singular being, now living in a lonely hut near a pond on the western edge of Sullivan County, that would be an acquisition to Barnum’s show. This object–for it can scarcely be called a person–has neither nose, eyes, nor ears, and only two teeth can be found in its head. Its feet are clubbed, and its hands are more like the fins of a fish than human members. Yet this singular creature lives and seems to enjoy itself. Dave Boyle, a well-known hunter in that section, has seen it eat raw fish, raw potatoes, and raw skunk flesh with evident delight. The mother of this object is a woman 6 feet 7 inches in height, and her husband is her own uncle. The mother has a heavy beard, and the father is a hare-lipped, hunchback dwarf, not quite four feet in height.

Such is the family to which ‘Old Mag’ belonged, and among this savage tribe she was regarded as a sort of queen. She was said by them to be the ‘seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,’ and was therefore thought to be endowed with miraculous powers of curing and fortune-telling. She was a withered old hag of singular presence, being nearly 6 feet 9 inches in height and exceedingly slim. Her skin was yellow, her hair long, black, and coarse, and her chin was covered with a beard about three inches long. She dressed herself in Indian style, and lived alone in her cabin on the shore of Big Pond, just in the edge of a productive cranberry marsh. Here she was visited last Summer by large numbers of New York and Philadelphia people who were spending the Summer in Sullivan County. She told their fortunes and received presents of money from them. ‘Old Mag’ would never allow a human being to sleep in her cabin. not even one of her own tribe, and those of the tribe who visited her always went prepared to sleep out of doors. These family gatherings were the wildest orgies imaginable, and more than one member of the fraternity has been missing after a debauch in some little log cabin in a remote glen or on a bleak mountain. 

‘Old Mag’ was last seen alive in the latter part of October. At that time she visited Mongaup Valley and Forestburg, telling fortunes and laying in a stock of tobacco and whisky. She seemed to be as lively as ever. One week after she was seen at the Mongaup Valley Post Office a half-witted young man named Hinks, one of the tribe, appeared and said that ‘Old Mag ain’t no hum no more and mebbe she’s dead.’ A hunter who heard of her disappearance made a trip to her cabin and found it deserted.”

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Gen. Cassius Marcellus Clay, Liberator And Captor

April 25, 2013 in Excerpts, Old Print Articles, Photography, Politics, Urban Studies | Permalink

General Cassius Marcellus Clay of Kentucky, profiled in these classic photographs, was a wonderful and terrible man, an abolitionist from a family of slave owners who went mental in his dotage, essentially imprisoning a very reluctant 15-year-old wife when he was in his eighties. He was also a politician, an expert duelist, a Yale graduate and so much more. From a report of the death of the nonagenarian in the July 23, 1903 New York Times:

“Gen. Cassius Marcellus was famous for such a multitude of daring deeds, political feats, and personal eccentricities that it is hard to choose any one act or characteristic more distinguished than the rest. As a duelist, always victorious, he was said to have been implicated in more encounters and to have killed more men than any fighter living. As a politician he was especially famous for his anti-slavery crusades in Kentucky, having become imbued with abolition principles while he was a student at Yale, despite the fact that his father was a wealthy slave owner. As a diplomat while Minister to Russia during and after the civil war, he took a prominent part in the negotiations that resulted in the annexation of Alaska.

The act of Gen. Clay’s life that has commanded most attention in recent years was his marriage to a fifteen-year-old peasant girl after he had reached his eighty-fourth birthday. In 1887, he had married his first wife, Miss Warfield, a member of an aristocratic family of slave holders, and years afterward when he had become an ardent disciple of Tolstoi, he came to the conclusion that he ought to wed a ‘daughter of the people.’ In November, 1894, he chose Dora Richardson, the daughter of a woman who had been a domestic for some time in his mansion at White Hall, near Lexington.

When the little girl became his wife, the General proceeded to employ a governess for her. She rebelled. Then he sent her to the same district school she had attended previously. The fact that he supplied her with the most beautiful French gowns and lavished money upon her, she did not consider compensations for the teasing she got at the hands of her fellow-pupils. In two months he had to take her back home, still uneducated. 

The old warrior’s eccentricities increased during his declining years, and after his latest marriage he thought little of anything except his dream that some ancient enemy was trying to murder him and his ‘peasant wife,’ as he called her. She, in spite of his kindnesses, kept running away from White Hall, and finally he decided he must get a divorce. This he did, charging her with abandonment. She soon married a worthless young mountaineer named Brock, who was once arrested for counterfeiting. Then the General began to plot to get her back, having already given a farm and house to her and her new husband, only to hear that Brock sold the property. At last Brock died, and a few months ago dispatches from Kentucky stated that the General was trying in vain to prevail upon his ‘child wife’ to return to him. She refused persistently, never having outgrown the dislike for the luxurious life with which he surrounded her and still preferring the simple country existence to which she was born.”

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A Note From 1884 About An Old Sweetheart

April 24, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the January 9, 1884 New York Times:

“Chicago–The recent developments in the medical colleges in relation to grave robberies in the vicinity of Chicago have excited general attention which was not lessened to-day by the discovery of a new case which in one way is a strange commentary on the brutality of some of the students. The detectives to-day recovered from the Homeopathic Medical College the stolen corpse of Mrs. G.M. McConaughy, the young wife of a Nebraska attorney. She was the daughter of J.B. Craft, a merchant of Rochelle, and until her marriage a year ago, was the acknowledged belle of that town. She was 22 years old then, of very attractive personal appearance, and highly accomplished. She was a schoolmate of Newton J. Shinkle, one of the students now under arrest, and it is said he was at one time in love with her. Now he is in a cell charged with robbing the grave of his former sweetheart. A few weeks ago Mr. McConaughy and his wife left their home in Nebraska to visit the old folks in Rochelle. While there the young wife became a mother, but her life went out with the old year, and New Year’s Day she was buried in the cemetery in Rochelle.

The husband made daily visits to the grave, and on Monday discovered some evidences that it had been disturbed. Investigation showed that the coffin was there, but it was empty. It was learned that young Waterman, one of the students under arrest, visited Rochelle New Year’s morning, and returned that night with a Saratoga trunk. Shinkle came to Chicago the day following. The trunk was traced to the Homeopathic College, and the body was found in a perfect state of preservation and was promptly given up by the Faculty. The body was purchased for $35, Jan. 2. The remains were shipped back to Rochelle and buried. Shinkle rode to Chicago in the same car with the husband of the woman whose grave he had robbed.”

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Old Print Article: “Lombroso Tricked Again?” New York Times (1907)

April 23, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Lambroso thinks that these indications...prove that the prisoner is a degenerate and only slightly responsible for the crime."

“Lambroso thinks that these indications prove that the prisoner is a degenerate and only slightly responsible for the crime.”

Cesare Lombroso was a pioneering criminologist in the 19th century who helped establish the field, but his methods and assumptions were often somewhere south of bizarre. An excerpt about some of his quackery from an article in the August 4, 1907 New York Times:

“Paris–Prof. Cesare Lombroso, the well-known Italian criminologist, has written to Le Temps on behalf of Soleilland, the man under sentence of death in Paris for assaulting and murdering a little girl, the daughter of a couple with whom he was on friendly terms.

Lombroso calls attention to the peculiar shape of Soleilland’s right hand, the outer edge of which, instead of being slightly convex, is quite straight and forms a continuation of the line of the forearm. There is a wide gap between the third and fourth fingers, and the second and third are the same length. Instead of two oblique lines on the palm, there is only one straight line. All these signs are peculiar to what is called in neuropathology the monkey hand, as usually found in the lower apes, epileptics, idiots, and born criminals.

Lambroso thinks that these indications, taken in conjunction with the peculiar shape of the iris of Soleilland’s eye, prove that the prisoner is a degenerate and only slightly responsible for the crime. The professor suggests that President Fallieres ought to weigh the matter very carefully before ordering his execution.

"All these signs are peculiar to what is called in neuropathology the monkey hand."

“All these signs are peculiar to what is called in neuropathology the monkey hand, as usually found in the lower apes, epileptics, idiots, and born criminals.”

Unfortunately the weak point in Prof. Lombroso’s argument is that Bertillon, the head of the Police Anthropometrical Department, says that he has never photographed Soleilland’s hands, and it is extremely probable that the distinguished Italian is the victim of a practical joker.

This is not the first time. He had a similar mishap years ago. Lombroso asked Prince Roland Bonaparte to obtain photographs of hands of female criminals. Through a misunderstanding the Prince in applying to the Anthropometrical Department asked for photographs of the hands of workwomen. The photographs appeared a year later in a work by Lombroso, who described the hands as showing all kinds of criminal tendencies, whereas they really belonged to respectable, hardworking women employed at the Central Markets.

Since the Chamber of Deputies has disallowed the executioner’s salary, thus indirectly stopping capital punishment, thirty-four criminals have been sentenced to death and none of them has been guillotined. A marked recrudescence of crime has since occurred in Paris, with quite an epidemic of offenses against women and children. The Soleilland case has brought public feeling to a head, and now there is a strong demand for the revival of the death penalty.

Meanwhile, Soleilland’s spirits are reviving and he is telling his warders that when his sentence is commuted and he is sent out to New Caledonia or Guiana he hopes to settle down, lead a new life, and own a donkey cart.”

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A Brief Note From 1867 About Flour Barrels

April 22, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the February 28, 1867 New York Times:

“Buffalo–Five dead bodies, two males, two females, and one newborn infant, were found by the Detective Police at the Grand Trunk Railroad depot this afternoon. They were shipped through the American Express Company for Ann Arbor, Mich. The bodies were packed  in flour barrels in a nude state, and had not been dead over a week. The bodies are now being cleansed of flour, and will be exposed for identification to-morrow morning. This city is wild with excitement to know whose relations have been thus desecrated by body snatchers.”

Old Print Article: “Photographs By Telegraph–Television Next?” New York Times (1907)

April 21, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies, Videos | Permalink

"We can now send a not too complicated photograph over very long distances in six to twelve minutes."

“We can now send a not too complicated photograph over very long distances.”

In the early years of the twentieth century, Professor Arthur Korn was conducting pioneering research into the development of the fax, which is still popular in certain places. A German of Jewish descent, the professor fled his home country in 1939 and emigrated to America, where he lived out his life. The opening of a November 24, 1907 New York Times article about Korn’s early telecommunications work, done in a time before world wars were even a thing, which seems to have resulted in the first facsimile ever sent:

“With the recent successful demonstration of Prof. Korn’s invention, by which photographs may be telegraphed from one part of the world to another, it seems not improbable that some day we may be able to see distant views through the aid of a telephone wire in the same way that we can now hear distant sounds.

That, at the first glance, may seem an impossibility; but no more impossible than the idea of telegraphing photographs would have appeared before its actual accomplishment.

The remarkable series of tests which demonstrated the practicability of the new invention took place in the office of The London Mirror on Nov. 7. The machine used in the test had been constructed for The Mirror by M. Carpenter of Paris. The receiving instrument was installed in the Paris office by L’Illustration, one of the leading pictorial journals of France.

Photographs–including one of the King–were both sent and received between London and Paris, a distance of 280 miles, and the eminently satisfactory results which were obtained came as a revelation to the distinguished company. Among the guests were several hundred who are prominent in science, art, politics, and journalism. This was the first time that photographs had been telegraphed from one capital to another, and Prof. Korn, the inventor, was the recipient of many congratulations, 

The first test was the sending of a photograph of King Edward to Paris, the whole operation taking only six minutes, at the end of which time the signal was given that the picture had been admirably reproduced in the Paris offices of L’Illustration.

Then a photograph was transmitted from Paris. A sensitive film was placed on a receiving cylinder, which is inclosed in a box, and as soon as the current was switched on the film began to slowly rotate and receive an exact copy of the film in Paris–an operation which again occupied six minutes.

The receiving film was then taken off the cylinder and an excellent photograph was printed from it amid the applause of the audience.

In a lecture given after the tests had been completed, Prof. Korn explained the working of his new system of photography. ‘We can now,’ he said, ‘send a not too complicated photograph over very long distances in six to twelve minutes. The problem of television, by which distant views are reproduced in a way similar to that by which we now hear distant sounds, has not yet been solved. Many bright minds are working upon it, but the great difficulty is the speed required. This must be a thousand times greater than the highest speed that has yet been obtained with telephotography.”

_______________________

“The picture you wish to have transmitted is taken to a sending station”:

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Roald Amundsen, Before Tasting Dog (1909)

April 19, 2013 in Old Print Articles, Photography, Urban Studies | Permalink

Capt. Roald Amundsen, the great Norwegian explore of polar regions, is profiled in this classic 1909 photograph. The arduous journeys that he and his rivals undertook to unravel Earth’s mysteries were large and heroic, but in a March 11, 1912 New York Times article, Amundsen discussed the smaller details of being an explorer that usually get lost in the history books. Excerpts about dog-eating and tooth-pulling:

“With regard to food, we had full rations all the way, but in that climate full rations are a very different thing to having as much as a man can eat. There seems little limit to one’s eating powers when doing a hard sledging journey. However, on the return journey we had not merely full rations, but as much as we could eat from the depots after passing 86 degrees.

‘The first dogs were eaten on the journey to the pole in 85 1/2 degrees, when twenty-four were killed. In spite of the fact that they had not always been able to obtain full meals, the dogs were fat and proved most delicious eating. It is anything but a real hardship to eat dog meat. …

‘Washing was a luxury never indulged in on the journey, nor was there any shaving, but as the beard has to be kept short to prevent ice accumulating from one’s breath, a beard-cutting machine which we had taken along proved invaluable.

‘Another article taken was a tooth extractor, and this also proved valuable, for one man had a tooth which became so bad that it was absolutely essential that it should be pulled out, and this could hardly have been done without a proper instrument.””

 

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